


Sweeter Than Heaven, Hotter Than Hell

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [15]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Face Slapping, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Rough Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3570665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl has a little surprise for Beth on a lunch break. A nice surprise. See, he wants her to make herself feel good.</p><p>Until she can't stand it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter Than Heaven, Hotter Than Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Daryl is an asshole. 
> 
> That is all.

She stands in the kitchen doorway and he leans over the island counter, looking at her.

She's not sure what to do with the way he's looking at her. Told her to be here at her lunch break, told her when, and while this isn't all that rare and while often they eat together and for various reasons they both like doing it and timing it where and when no one else is around, this feels different. When he told her that morning. Now. How he's looking at her.

That in itself isn't exactly new either. He's looked at her like that before. But each time it's also subtly different. Little steps forward. So she stands in the doorway and she feels herself already going loose and hot, her hands alternately clenching into fists and uncurling at her sides, fingertips tingling just the slightest bit.

Waiting. Wondering if he'll want her to fight him this time or want her to give in right from the start. Be a _good girl._

He's got an apple, and without taking his eyes off her he reaches for the block and pulls out a knife, uses it to gesture to her. Beckoning. So that's an indication of something. So is the apple. Any of these things might be. But the biggest indication is his face, his eyes. Because she's beginning to perceive that he's got that cool, distant look he sometimes gets. That he cultivated. Still sometimes has to work for. Because what's under it is so warm and so hot and so tender and so violent and all of it beating so hard for release. Never gone. It's the greater part of him.

But he can wear masks now, this man who never used to be able to hide anything. Occasionally. For fun.

For her.

She moves forward, silent, and every shift of her thighs, the way they press and rub slightly together and give her just the lightest hint of pressure, friction, _vibration_ , it's already starting to drive her crazy. He must know that, must be able to tell by the way her face and ears and neck are flushing red, and because he knows her by now and he knows how and when she responds to things. How she's trained herself. How they've trained each other.

She moves around the island and he turns as she does, still staring at her, and slides his free hand into her hair, and for half a moment he's gentle.

Then he gives her hair a tug, a little sharp, pulling her head to the side, and pushes her toward the other counter beside the sink. "Have a seat."

For a few seconds she's not sure what he means. Then she gets it, hops up, sits there and waits.

He hasn't given her any sign at all that he wants her to resist him. But she sort of wonders what he might do to her if she does. She bites her lip, tries not to smile. Sure he'll see it anyway.

He turns away and she hears him cut the apple in half. Turns back, one half in hand, leans back and looks her up and down and takes a bite, and something about the entire package makes her shiver. Just a little. The way his hair is hanging in his face. The flash of his teeth. It's still chilly outside but she shed her jacket and sweater when she came in, and it's warm in here. The shirt he's wearing is sleeveless. When he holds his arms like he is, braced back on one and the other grasping and holding, the muscles in both stand out, and she knows he must know that. Once, before he got used to the idea that she liked looking at him - and it took a while, because the idea that anyone at all might _like_ to look at him was completely alien to him - he did everything unconsciously. If he kept his arms bare it was because it was easier to move that way, easier to be fast with the bow, fast in general, more comfortable.

He still does it for those reasons, when he can. But he also does it to make a point to her.

And because he knows she enjoys it. And that's still what this is mostly about.

He nods at her, still cool. "Make yourself come."

She blinks at him. This also isn't rare, jumping in like this, no buildup but just blunt direction, but again there's something about it that strikes her differently, something about the setting and how he's told her to arrange herself, and it occurs to her that sitting like this her legs will be encouraged to spread wide, she's going to have to lean back if she doesn't want to fall, and he must have thought about all of these things.

Another slow pulse of heat, and now her cunt is aching. If that's really what he wants it's not going to take her very long.

"C'mon." Now he sounds slightly impatient. "I gotta be back out there in half an hour. Get on it."

 _Half an hour._ As it is she's on a hair trigger and it probably won't take her more than half a minute at most. She sucks in a breath and gets her jeans open, wriggles them and her panties down her thighs as best she can without getting off the counter - she suspects this is part of the challenge - and she realizes she won't be able to spread her legs as much as _she_ wants to if she doesn't kick off her boots. Does that. Being naked from the waist down like this makes her feel both pleasantly free and wonderfully exposed, and she pulls in another deep breath and bites down harder on her lip as her hand drops between her legs and starts to move.

And Daryl just takes another slow bite of apple and watches her.

She's wet, very, and as she slips a finger into herself it occurs to her that this isn't exactly the most sanitary thing in the world in a food prep setting, and she almost laughs. Then she doesn't, because she thinks that might be a transgression of something, or he might jump on it as a reason to make this less pleasant for her in an extremely pleasant way, and that might be nice, but this...

This is nice too.

She uses the slick of her cunt to make her fingers slide better, stroking and pressing, her clit like a hot little nub squeezing the breath in her chest every time she tries to inhale, and like she thought it doesn't take long; less than a minute indeed and she's arching her back, breath tight and not quite sobbing, shaking and pulling her lips into a grimace as she comes.

And he's just watching her.

She braces herself on the edge of the counter and leans forward, breathing hard, unconsciously sucking herself off her fingers, which he likes watching but which even more now she likes _doing_ , and things like that? She'll do them without being permitted. She's still got ways to get her own here. Lots of little things she keeps mostly for herself.

So she gets her breath back and she waits, and he takes another bite of apple, and she expects to be dismissed-

Except there's the thing about how he has _half an hour._

He licks juice off his thumb. "Again. Spread those legs wider. Lemme see you."

She takes a deeper breath. She didn't expect that, but okay. Okay, she can do it again. She's still hot, not by any means fully satisfied - because she's a _slut_ and she _can't get enough of it_ and thinking these things now always comes close to making her grin because it's sort of a joke for a lot of reasons - and she can do it. She always bounces back quickly anyway.

She does. Moves a little harder this time, a little faster, fucks herself with two fingers to really get herself going, and the attention she gives her clit is rough and persistent. And she's more breathless after, feeling like it was almost an effort, breathing hard and looking up at him with her head low between her shoulders and her juices smeared on her lips.

He doesn't quite smile. Still working on the apple.

"Again."

...Okay.

This time she has to try for it. She has to work. Not hard, exactly, but she has to reach and grab for it, hold on, holding her breath until she feels her pulse between her ears as she tenses and loosens the muscles deep in her cunt, and when she finally comes, gasping, it's almost with relief, with a little edge of triumph, because she accomplished something.

And she's sort of tired now. Shaky, and not just with the warm little aftershocks of it.

She meets his eyes and suddenly she already knows what he's going to say.

"Again."

This is a bad idea. She already knows that too. This isn't open defiance, but it's less than total, unquestioning obedience, and that seems to be what he expects right now, and he's likely to come back at her hard if she doesn't do what he says. But she's tired, and while almost all of her is tremblingly eager for the direction in which she thinks this might be going...

She's _tired_. And she's not sure she can, so soon.

"Daryl..."

"What?" He cocks his head, and though he's still not smiling - though in fact he seems like he's on the edge of frowning - she can tell he's pleased by this. By all of it. It's practically dancing in his eyes. This - everything she's doing including _this_ \- is exactly what he wants from her. Exactly what he expected before she even walked in. "What's the problem?"

"I don't know if I can-"

"The fuck you mean, you don't know?" He still mostly just sounds impatient, but there's an edge of something sharper under it. "'s not complicated, you done it like hundreds of fuckin' times. C'mon."

She lets out a breath that almost bleeds into a whimper. The knife is still on the counter just behind him and to his left, very close to his hand. He wouldn't use that to punish her, he never does that, but she still fixes her attention on it, on its edge and the way it gleams in a bar of early afternoon sun coming through the window.

"It's too soon, I can't just-"

"You can't?" He moves forward suddenly, apple on the counter and his hands free, and he catches her right wrist in one hand and grips her jaw with the other and pulls her face up to his, and she does whimper and a little twist of pseudo-fear pulls at her belly, and it's wonderful. "The fuck you talkin' about?" He gives her head a little shake. "I tell you to come in here, I tell you to make yourself feel good, and you're tellin' me you _can't?_ "

He takes her hand and yanks it down, shoves her hand between her legs. "I tell you to make yourself come, you do it. _Now_."

She lets out a long, shaking breath. Her fingers are already moving, he's holding her hand there with a grip so tight it almost hurts, and her face _does_ hurt, the insides of her cheeks pressed against her teeth, but she manages to speak - another tiny resistance that sends more heat rushing south.

She's ready to start pushing back. A little. She thinks he might be ready to be pushed.

"How many times?"

"Many times as I say."

She strains. Tries so hard she's shaking. She bought some time there, a couple of minutes to come back and get ready, and it helped, but it's still hard and she still works, tight and loose and tight again, feeling almost like she's fucking herself from the inside out. And when she comes he's still gripping her jaw, and she sobs between her teeth as her wrist jerks in his fist, every muscle tense.

"Again."

"Daryl." She's thirsty now, tongue and lips and the back of her throat dry from gasping and panting. "Please."

"Do it again."

"I can't."

He slaps her across the face.

That's new.

For a moment there's no pain. Just heat on her cheek. Then the sting hits her and she makes a choked little whining sound. He didn't hit her hard, not really hard at all, but it was _unexpected_ , and it still _hurt_.

Not in a way she hates. In that way she completely _doesn't_ hate. And the heat in her cheek slips down between her legs and settles there, and she thinks maybe she can after all.

He has her jaw again, staring at her, and she sees his face shift, mask slipping off just for a second. That without asking, he's asking her a question he asks her at _least_ once every time. Checks in with her. Makes sure.

She nods. Once, slow, very slight.

His grip tightens on her wrist. "Do it again."

"I-"

On purpose now. So when he slaps her next it's harder, sharper, and tears flood into the corners of her eyes.

"How many times I gotta say it? Do. It. _Again_."

Her hand is moving. Almost without meaning to, her hand is moving. She's soaked now and practically her whole hand is wet, and she does feel warm little shivers of pleasure with every circling stroke of her fingers. But she still whimpers and tries to shake her head, and he leans in further, lips brushing her earlobe. Breath warm on her neck.

Tight and loose at the same time. Just like before, like always. It's the core of her, at times like these.

"You don't just try, you understand me? You make yourself come. You do that, or you know what's gonna happen, and you know I'll do it so you don't like it."

She does know.

She also knows - and he knows - that he's lying. That she'll like it, if it happens. That there are any number of ways in which she loves what he does to her, and he'll _make_ her love it. In her body. Or in her head.

In her heart.

So she does try. She tries so hard, sobbing, and she has no idea how long it is before she comes again but she's trembling, her whole arm sore, and she wonders what's going to show on - and in - her face when she goes back out there.

She tries and she manages to do it, and when he can tell she's getting close he helps her with another slap across her face, hard enough to pull a soft cry out of her, a cry that hardens as her hips snap forward and her head jerks back, and again she feels triumphant. The way she always feels now when he sets a task for her, something at all difficult, and she succeeds.

But he says it. Like she knows he's going to, hissing it in her ear. _Again_. And when she shakes her head, just a little, he slaps her twice more, and it's still not all that hard but the skin of her cheeks is tight and burning and tears spill down them.

She tries. She really does. But she can't.

Her body goes loose as soon as he releases her, leaning forward, her head hanging low and her breath heaving in and out of her, and she actually thinks he might be about to take pity on her and let her go when he tangles her hair around his fingers again and jerks her head up, her mouth opening instinctively in another cry.

And before she closes her mouth he's shoving something between her teeth. Round. Smooth. She bites down and her teeth sink into it and sweet juice floods her mouth, and she realizes what it is and almost laughs through her tears.

Then his mouth is on her.

This is _not_ what she thought he meant.

He's not being gentle with her. He's going hard. _Attacking_ her. Long, rough cat-sweeps of his tongue, flicking at her overused clit. She wants to wriggle backward, wants to use her hands to push him away, but he grabs them, slams them down on the counter and holds them there, and she arches her back and moans, biting down harder, more wet sweetness in her mouth. Her head falls back and hits the cabinet and she barely even feels it.

He's never done this before. He's denied her, not given her enough, gotten her hot and then not given her _anything_ , but he's never given her _too much,_ more than she can stand, so oversensitive now that it's painful and there's no chance in _hell_ she's going to come again.

But she doesn't think that's what this is even really about.

 _Tight_ and _loose_ and _tight_ and _loose_ , her muscles not even under her own control anymore, trying not to kick without meaning to, and now her moans are past sobs and into muffled little rhythmic cries. She's not as far as screaming yet but she can see how she might get there, and she knows she could let go and do it. He's given her that, he's giving her everything.

Giving her too much. It's wonderful. It's fucking _amazing_ , how it's a wall of sensation slamming into her, and it's too much and then she does scream, loud even around the makeshift gag he's stuck between her jaws, shaking everywhere, spasming, and she thinks she'd be convulsing right off the counter if he wasn't holding her there.

And she's coming again. So hard it's like someone's punched her, so hard she sees stars, and she closes her eyes and sees even more of them in the red haze of her head.

She's not sure when he releases her. She just knows she's collapsing forward against his chest and he's standing between her legs and holding her up, arms around her, almost rocking her. He pulls the apple out of her mouth and replaces it with his own, and she tastes herself on him and licks weakly at him, and everything is soft and good, even though her face and her cunt are both hot and throbbing and aching.

He holds her and she drifts a little, her head against his chest. He holds onto her and he might be murmuring something to her. She's not sure.

"You gotta go, Beth." Still a murmur, finally, but he's stepping away from her, hands on her shoulders to steady her. Tilting her face up with a finger under her chin and looking into her eyes.

She manages to focus. Gives him one of those loose, fucked out smiles that she guesses must make her look a little stoned, which she's never been in her life before all this started happening.

"Alright."

Still trembling a little, she waves him away. A sharper ache twists through her as her feet hit the floor - not her cunt or her face or even her legs but _everything_ , like she's strained every muscle in her body, which she supposes maybe she has. She starts to gather up her clothes, and when she looks back she sees that he's leaning against the island, back to the other half of his apple like nothing happened, and if his hair wasn't just a little more mussed than usual she might wonder if he moved at all.

He jerks his head toward the door. "Go on, get outta here."

Somehow she manages to get dressed. He watches her. She manages to stumble toward the door. He watches her do that too.

She's just reached it, and she's feeling the tiniest bit more able to deal with the rest of the day, when he calls to her.

"Beth."

She turns, wondering if he's cooked up some new torture for her, if giving her the idea that he's going to let her walk out of here was just a way to fuck with her head, but he's holding out the apple, the marks of her teeth very visible on its glossy red-gold surface.

"Catch."

Instinctively she does.

 _Lunch_ , she thinks, turning again and heading into the front hall toward the door. Grinning now, taking a bite, matching her teeth to where they already were. Lunch.

They both got to eat, so that's good.


End file.
